That’s just not my mum,
he whispers, soft dark eyes
looking ahead and behind
into another time and space.
Outside the trees stand bare,
skeletal fingers gracefully twist,
spiral and dance to a naked sky.
A small crinkle of leaves at their roots.
She sits, eyes closed, resting
as an oxygen mask rasps
its gifts into her failing lungs.
A hard crag sits above her nipple.
The land softens and muddies
with the falling of the rain,
the baked hardness of summer gone
and the world less sure underfoot.
It’s funny, he offers, I normally help
tidy their houses after they’ve gone,
being an estate agent and all.
Before his words fade back to silence.
Pale sunshine lights up the day,
branches clack and click with
the passing of the breeze, winter
wears a different coat to summer.
She did love a cigarette, he exhales,
breathing into a tangled web of feeling.
The elements pitter-patter gently on the window,
singing softly the advent of another season.
(Taken from ‘Breaking‘)